Infinite Feelings that Cannot be Ignored
by tombantparfois
Summary: Perks of Being a Wallflower/Sherlock AU. Only characters from Sherlock. Borrowing heavily from Perks. Same plot as Perks but using Sherlock characters. It is set in the early 1990's, same as Perks. Warning: this work is unedited and unbeta'd. Sorry for any Americanisms or typos found. **note: Mrs. Hudson was called the name "Martha" in "His Last Bow".
1. Chapter 1

Dear acquaintance,

The woman with whom I was speaking informed me that you would be a considerate person to whom I could confide in my innermost thoughts. She had used the word "friend," though we ahve not properly met, and therefore I have no desire to face unnecessary labels on someone I have not properly met. I wish to remain anonymous in this pen-on-paper encounter. I shall refer to those I talk about with generic names so my identity is thus concealed from you.

Honestly (and I have been told that I should be honest for the full effect of my writing to you), I take great comfort in the fact that people such as yourself exist, and that you (or at least pretend to) care.

So this is my life. I think you should know that I feel conflicted in the sense that I constantly experience two contrasting emotions at once.

I try to consider my family being the reason for me...being the way that I am, though I find that improbable. Thinking this way causes me to relive the moment last spring when my classmates and I heard the sorrowful voice of our headmaster on the loudspeaker.

"Boys and girls, I regret to inform you that one of our students has passed on. We will hold a memorial service for Victor Trevor during assembly this Friday."

The (incorrectly labeled) rumour said that Victor had committed suicide. Incorrectly labeled, I say, because it was true.

Unfortunately, I have little to no recollection of that day except that my older brother, Mycroft, came to the office to fetch me at my secondary school and told me to stop crying. Then, he consoled me and told me to "get it out of my system" before my father returned home from work. Wouldn't like to see his son crying, I suppose. A sign of weakness. Utter rubbish.

The guidance counselors said that Victor killed himself because of family problems at home and he had no one to talk to. He could have talked to me. At Victor's funeral, I sat in silence wondering why his father did not seem sad. He left Vic's mother three months after that, no surprise there. It was bound to happen. Family problems. Likely that this was a contributing factor to Victor's suicide. I miss him.

I highly doubt that such drama could ever occur within my household. My mother and father show no signs of conflict between them. They appear to feel no differently towards me as they do Mycroft. I know that my aunt Martha loves me very dearly. She is the only person I've ever cared for. She was my mum's sister. She always gave me these books to read, which (aside from the violin) was my favourite thing to do. My dear Aunt Martha lived with my family for the last few years of her life.

Except that's not why I'm writing to you today. I just wanted to...this is rather odd, but I needed...comfort. It's quite late (for me) and I should at least pretend to get some sleep. I begin school tomorrow morning at a brand new school. I think I am nervous.

-Sherlock


	2. 16 September 1991

Dear acquaintance, Year ten is irrelevant to my overall knowledge. I find it unpleasant and have no desire to continue with it. I saw my old friend Jim in the cafeteria. He was kind to me in primary school and in the beginning of secondary school. We never became close, but we appreciated each other from afar. He was happier then; he works too hard to impress now. He's hard to deduce, but it's not unnoticeable that he doesn't laugh as much as he used to. Happily.

The only thing I tolerate about school is my English teacher. Brilliant man. A tad dense; though friendly. Dull and boring. Constantly bickering with his wife. They'll be divorced soon. Despite all these things, he is kind. Unlike anyone else here. He doesn't need to be. He said to call him Greg. He gives me books to read. I read them. Write essays. Turn them in in secret. We read To Kill a Mockingbird. I hated it. Stupid, irrelevant book. I need to read more.

Mycroft's got a girlfriend. She's got no hair. Shaves it all off. Must get cold in the winter. She resembles a man more than a woman. Not Mycroft's type. He doesn't even like women. Or men. Yet somehow he's got tonnes of friends. Acquaintances. His girlfriend, Anthea, gives him mix tapes. Mycroft gave the most recent one to me after Anthea left last night. They had watched a movie. James Bond. Tedious.

"Sherlock, would this...music be of your interest?" He said music like it was a curse word. I took it without saying a word. Incredibly bored. Decided to listen to it. Not boring. This song..."Asleep," it's called. If you like violin music you should listen to this. Well, I don't actually care whether or not you listen to the song. It hasn't even got violins in it. But I like violin music, and I like "Asleep." The two interests must be connected somehow. Remember: do a study on that later.

I told Mycroft about "Asleep." He did not care, but he politely thanked me when Anthea asked him what he thought of the tape. He described what I had told him. He's very good at lying and conjuring believable falsehoods out of nowhere.

Greg told me that my mind moves faster than a mouse. Irrelevant. Mice do not move at a measurable speed, nor do my thoughts. Apparently I write how I talk. Is that not the point of writing? I have no proble writing about the current event in my mind. Doesn't matter what others think.

I went down to the basement the weekend last. I must not have been observing closely enough. Mycroft was on the sofa, naked, and Anthea's pale nude legs draped over him like a curtain. It was a confusing and disturbing sight. Had I wanted to watch my brother get shagged I would not have come down to the basement. All I wanted was to watch some crime telly. Stupid, to be quite frank. I like solving the mysteries before.

* * *

**18 September 1991**

****For some strange reason I signed up for wood shop class. I hate it. Tedious. But enjoyable. There is a girl there who makes it enjoyable. Her name is "Nothing." I knew it was fake, probably bully-induced, because hardly anyone would call themselves that; publicly downgrade themselves to a nonexistent object. "Nothing" is in year 12. "Nothing" got her name in the beginning of primary school. "Either you call me Harry or you call me nothing," she'd said. Or so the (incorrectly labeled) rumours state. Thus Harry was dubbed "Nothing."

I think I will stop putting quotation marks around Nothing's name. It is stupid and disrupting my flow. Hopefully your dull brain won't find this difficult to follow.

Nothing did a humourous performance in which she pretended to be our teacher, Professor Callahan. It was quite hilarious. Well, my peers were laughing. I wasn't. I found it mildly amusing. She had drawn Callahan's mutton-chop sideburns with a grease pencil. Quite the length.

Mycroft requested for his tape back. I returned it. He listens to it more than he cares to admit. It's alright. Everyone knows. Fat git.

* * *

**6 October 1991**

****There was a football game Friday last. I was bored enough to go. I don't know why. Stupid. School spirit is irrelevant. Victor and I used to go to the games. Victor was exciting. Vacant head, but good interests. I was never bored. Jim would go sometimes. I once saw Jim and Vic kiss, hold hands a few times. Almost felt jealousy. Almost.

This was the first time I'd gone alone since Victor hanged himself. Jim doesn't say "hi" to me anymore. Not that I care. (Even though he's interesting.)

A girl named Clara was on the boy's football team. This was an impressive feat, being that' she's a girl. Not in a sexist way. I heard Nothing, from a few seats back, yell "C'mon, Clara!"

Normally I am socially reserved, aware of my boundaries and determined not to stretch them. Whatever possessed me to do this is still unknown to me, but in a strange way, I have no regrets on the matter. I made my way over to Nothing's seat and stood above her.

Her eyes brightened when she noticed me. "Hey, you're in my shop class, aren't you?"

I nodded. What was I doing here? I remember thinking, I should leave. Before I knew it, I was introducing myself. Confidently. But that's just my armour. "The name is Sherlock Holmes."

Nothing laughed. "And mine is Harry. And this," she said, pointing to a blond boy next to her, "is John." John waved at me.

"Hey, Sherlock." Completely stupid to notice such a thing, but as far as smiles go, John's was my favourite. Warm. Welcome. Friendly.

I was soon sitting next to them. Nothing Harry was a very enthusiastic football fan. Moreso than my own father. That is a far more impressive feat than a girl making the boy's football league.

John has blond hair and happy blue eyes. I don't know why I wrote happy. Eyes cannot display emotion. They can convey it. But not represent it. After the game, Harry and John took me to a pub. I can't legally drink, but they can. I was just pleased to be with them. The pub was called the Big Boy. Stupid name for a pub. Stupid name, actually. But I liked it. Harry and John didn't share inside jokes, but instead asked me questions. I found myself surprised that I wanted to answer them.

"How old are you, Sherlock?"

"Sixteen."

"What do you want to do when you grow up?"

"Solve crimes."

"What's your favourite band?"

"The Smiths. Their one song, Asleep I like."

"What's your favourite film?"

"Films are tedious."

They laughed. Then they told me their favourites. I cared to know the answers. They smoked. Actually, Harry smoked, but John didn't. John started arguing about health. He'd make a good doctor someday. All that worrying.

I had not spoken for a while. I found myself entertained by watching them together. Happy. They were happy. Maybe if John wasn't dating anyone, I might ask him out. When I can drive. Funny. Driving's never appealed to me before. Lots of things had never appealed to me before tonight. But I did not mind that he had a girlfriend, especially if he was happy, and it was Harry. Then I thought I might try to take part in the conversation. Though I knew the answer, the question seemed polite.

"How long have you two been together?"

They laughed. Hard.

I was no less than terribly confused, and that is not something that happens to me often. At all, really. "What? What did I say that you find so humourous?"

"John's my brother," Harry said, still laughing.

Funny. They did not look alike, but they were siblings. Not enough to be half-siblings. Stepsiblings then. That was the most logical assumption, being that Harry had moved here when her mother married another man. But I asked the question anyway. I was determined to please. "You don't look a like," I 'observed.'

They informed me that they were stepsiblings, much as I had suspected. I'm rarely wrong. But then I was happy, because I realised what this meant. I could ask John on a date. Easy to tell that he's interests for both women and men. Of course, he's got to have a girlfriend, he wouldn't wear those ridiculous jumpers on his own will. I hope. Ridiculous.

That night I had a dream. Never had a dream like this before, but it was oddly enjoyable. I was with John, and we were both naked. I had my pale, nude legs draped over him like a curtain on the couch in our basement. I conducted experiments a while ago to see if I could repeat a dream. It's possible, yet unlikely to happen. This was unfortunate to recall when I thought about my dream about John. I would like to have that dream again.


	3. 14 October 1991

Chapter 3: 14 October 1991

_We accept the love we think we deserve._

**A/N: Warning for masturbation, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd spoilers, and an offensive opinion on religion (which I do not have an opinion myself on but think it fits Sherlock's character).**

* * *

Dear acquaintance,

Harry recently informed me about the value of masturbation. I had heard of the term before but deleted it. I'll admit that it is indeed intriguing. At first, the thought of stroking my genitals to the point of orgasm confused me. Why should that be appealing? Until I had that dream about John and awoke with a startling erection, I saw no point in it. If only I had learnt of masturbation sooner.

I told John about the dream I had (which, admittedly, causes me some embarrassment now to recall), and he laughed. It wasn't condescending or rude in any way, it was a nice, warm laugh. He said that I was being "cute." I've never been called cute in my life, and if I ever were to be called so again, it would annoy me quite a lot. But I didn't mind it at all when it was John saying it. John asked if I thought he was handsome, and I replied honestly. I told him that I found him compelling and extremely attractive. He looked me right in the eye and said, "You know you're too young for me, Sherlock? You _do _know that?"

I told him that yes, I did.

He said that he didn't want me to waste my time thinking about him that way.

I told him that it was just a dream, and that I understood. How foolish of me to tell him!

John gave me a hug after that. I've never been used to hugs. My family is not the hugging kind, except for my Aunt Martha. Eventually I hugged back, but not long after I could smell John's cologne and feel his body against mine. I could feel myself getting a "hard-on" (Harry taught me that term. It is slang for an erection). I quickly stepped away, and he looked at me curiously.

I felt the need to explain my actions, because I knew that John's brain was much slower than mine. "I was thinking about you in a sexual way again."

He shook his head at me, and then put an arm around my shoulder and walked me down the halls.

Harry was standing there smoking a cigarette. We were skipping class. I quite liked this part about them; class was hideously boring and constantly dull.

"Sherlock fancies me in a Sherlock-esque way, Harry," John said. This was a very puzzling statement at first because I had no clue what made it so 'Sherlock-esque'.

Harry smirked and said, "He does, huh?"

I felt the need to defend myself and said that I was trying not to, but that made them laugh.

Harry said she wanted to talk to me in private so she could explain to me how I should act around other blokes and not waste my time thinking of John in a sexual way. She said that John was very flattered but did not think of me that way.

"Sherlock, have you been told how it works?"

How what works? "Not properly."

"Well, there are rules you follow here not because you want to, but because you have to. Understand?"

"More or less."

"Okay. Unfortunately, most blokes who are gay don't like to say they are, and most blokes who are straight don't like male attention."

"Yes. I see."

"Are you interested in women too, Sherlock?"

"I suppose I could be."

"Okay. They're even more complicated."

"Humans aren't that complicated."

She looked at me with almost pity.

"Alright. Know this. Some girls think that they can change blokes. They think of men as a challenge, and once they change them, they get bored." She took another drag from her cigarette, holding it between her two fingers and blowing out with practiced precision.

Harry told me not to worry about this too much.

I worried about it a lot. In English class, I looked around at everyone, observing. There was one other homosexual in my class, a very 'girly' girl who I'd heard from Harry gave every boy 'blow jobs.' This is another sexual slang term for oral sex, meaning that she would put penises in her mouth. Obviously she does this because she wants everyone under the impression that she is a heterosexual. It doesn't work on me. Harry told me her name, too, but that was irrelevant and didn't matter to me so I deleted it.

Another girl in my class whose name was Sarah is in a complicated relationship. Her boyfriend gave her his letterman jacket to wear, but she thought that he was cheating on her. He is. She just wants him to pay more attention to her. He won't.

Greg approached me after class. He walked with authority and his facial expression said obviously that he felt we needed to have a serious chat.

He told me that he had observed me observing people and did I usually think this much.

I asked him curiously if that was bad.

He said that no, not necessarily, but that sometimes people use intense thought not to participate in life. How illogical. The simple act of breathing is participating in life.

I asked him if that was bad and he told me that it was.

I told him what I had just thought, how his opinion was illogical and invalid because 'participating in life,' as he put it, was clearly done by breathing and continuing to exist. Greg informed me that that was not what he meant. Then he moved on to a new topic of conversation, 'family problems at home.'

I told him that I didn't have problems and that I have been doing very well since my old friend Victor hanged himself and my Aunt Martha died the night before my birthday. This shocked him, though it makes no sense why it should. I decided to tell him about Mycroft's bald girlfriend, and how she yelled at him all the time and was always getting him naked (for sex, no doubt) and calling him a 'fat-arse', and that Mycroft put on a convincing mask to pretend that he was happy, but that was illogical because it was quite obvious to me that he was very sad.

Greg looked at me with pity and told me something that I consider to be a wise statement, and I respect him for it. "Sherlock, we accept the love we think we deserve." I stood there, quiet, assessing his proclamation and he patted me on the shoulder (I didn't like that touch and I hope he never does it again) and gave me another book. He told me it was a mystery novel. He said he thought I would enjoy this one because I like to solve mysteries about people. I was very impressed because I never told him that and he had gathered that information from simply observing. He told me that if I could solve the mystery before the end of the book he had a surprise for me. I didn't like the thought of a surprise, so I told him that it might be best if he just told me what it is. He laughed and said that 'in due time' he would.

-Sherlock

* * *

**15 October 1991**

Dear acquaintance,

I do not believe I mentioned in my last letter how often I masturbate, which is a lot now. I don't look at or watch pornography when I do it, I've found that I can 'get off' just as easily if I'm occupying my brain with something else. I do not think about John when I do this, because it is important to me that I keep my word and not think about him in a sexual way. So I just read the mystery novel Greg gave me. It was called _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_ by Agatha Christie. I deduced while in my masturbatory state that Dr. Sheppard had murdered him, and found myself to be correct by the end of the novel. It was quite obvious, as no one else could have done it. Flora Ackroyd was too stupid to be clever enough, Miss Russel was an illogical suspect, and Ursula Bourne was an interesting and plausible suspect, but it couldn't have been her. Overall I rather enjoyed the book and I would like to continue to read others like it. I really liked Caroline Sheppard because though she was not nearly as smart as I am, she was a significant bit smarter than the rest of the human race. She reminded me of John and myself.

One time while I was 'having a wank' (Harry teaches me so much) I decided to think about John, just once. He wouldn't have to know, because I wouldn't tell him. So I sat on my bed and closed my eyes and pictured John, naked and sitting on my lap, stroking my penis. I liked that image so much that I did not stop thinking about it and I reached my orgasm very quickly. As soon as I finished, I felt extremely guilty, because I promised I would not think of John that way, and incredibly confused because I do not feel guilty about things. So I decided I would pray to God and ask for forgiveness. I am not a religious person at all, because the idea of having a God is so absurd, but my mum was raised in Northern Ireland and is very Catholic. My dad never went to the Church of England very often but he still believes in God.

I think God is just an idea humans invented to feel less scared. Because when you know you are alone, you get scared. You need someone to talk to and you need to know that someone is protecting you, that you aren't in charge. But then people started making all these rules and defending a book that is thousands of years old and has no logic or fact basis to support those outrageous theories whatsoever. Nonetheless (this is a new word I learned from Greg.) it made me feel a bit better about masturbating and thinking of engaging in consensual sexual intercourse with John. So I started using blankets to touch my penis and reading while masturbating but blankets hurt, so I switched to pillows, but the pillows hurt, so I went back to using my hand and lubrication.

I decided to talk to Mycroft about Anthea. He did not want to talk about her. I asked if that meant he wanted to break up with her, but he didn't confirm that suspicion. He wants to break up with her. I just hope that when I get a girlfriend or boyfriend that I am content one-hundred-percent of the time.

-Sherlock

* * *

**Thank you for the lovely reviews! I hope to post as often as I can. Constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome. I'm doing some research on the British school system, in hopes to mix that into the American school system, to keep it a little closer to Perks of Being a Wallflower. I have gotten some reviews saying that this story would be better with John in the place of Charlie, but the reason I picked Sherlock is because I needed someone 'fun' for the part of Sam, and had John been Charlie, then I would be too tempted to change his character to resemble Charlie too much, and I think John is a lot different. My hopes were to maintain the character.**


	4. 28 October 1991

28 October 1991

_And in that moment, I swear we were infinite._

**A/N: **Warning for a rape scene, smoking, recreational drug use, and underage alcohol use.

* * *

Dear acquaintance,

It's been a long time since I've written to you because I have been attempting to 'participate in life' as Greg had said. I returned The Murder of Roger Ackroyd to him a few weeks ago and I told him how I'd deduced it and worked out the murder fifty-six pages into the book, and he looked astonished. Naturally it could be hard for one to believe something like this, but Greg was indeed convinced (rightfully) that I had worked it out (leaving out the part that I was masturbating when I did it). I told him that it was a very good book that I had enjoyed, but the mystery was dull and simple.

I could barely believe myself what happened next: Greg gave me a case. A real case. His wife (not for long, though. She's cheating on him) is a detective for the Scotland Yard. There had been serial suicides that I had figured out were all murders. Murder fascinates me, but I have been informed by Greg that this is a 'morbid obsession' and I do not care one bit. I wasn't allowed to do any legwork, but I could deduce things from evidence that Greg brought me. I deduced correctly that the cab driver was the murderer. I wanted to meet him very badly to ask how he'd gotten the victims to commit suicide, but no one would let me. Sixteen-year-olds aren't allowed to talk to murderers, I suppose.

I've also tried to participate in social events at my school, by request of my parents and Greg. Horrendously illogical and extremely dull. But John and Harry go to all of these events, so I am thankful for that at least.

I went to the football game last night. I purchased diet coke and some chips for them, and they smiled gratefully at me. I love John's smile. It made me feel warm inside. Harry didn't pay much attention. She was too busy watching the football game and cheering on Clara.

Harry's gay. It's obvious. Any person with half a brain can see that. She has never publicly showed any interested in members of her opposite sex, and her eyes are slightly more dilated when she talks to females than when she talks to males. She's afraid that if she comes out she'll be ridiculed. She will be.

After the game was over, John said that there was going to be a party at a friend's house. He asked me if I wanted to go. Of course I didn't, and he could see that, but I wanted to be anywhere with John.

I remember once when my parents were away, Mycroft hosted a party. It was a real posh party, with wine and wineglasses, and everyone was smoking cigarettes. They all dressed fancy, too. I thought that since they were Mycroft's friends they would act more polite and civil-minded, but apparently I thought wrong. A large number of our guests must have gotten drunk, because every ten minutes or so a couple would stumble into my room (where Mycroft had requested for me to stay) snogging, then see me and leave. Except for one couple.

They were very sociable and very much "in love," stumbled into my room and asked if I minded them using it. I told them that it would distract me from my experiment, and upon Mycroft's orders I was not to leave the room, but if they must use it they were to be very quiet. So they agreed and resumed snogging intensely for minutes straight. Then, the boy's hand snaked itself up the girl's slinky dress, and she started to protest.

"Come on, Seb,"

"What?"

"The kid's in here."

"That's fine!"

And the boy kept working his hand up the girl's dress, despite how often she said no. I pretended to concentrate on my soil experiment, monitoring them from the corner of my eye. She stopped protesting and he pulled her dress completely off. She wore no undergarments but a pair of black lacy pants. He started to kiss her breasts and put one hand down her pants. She started moaning loudly, and it was distracting. I turned around completely to tell them to please quiet down, but I was mesmerised. The boy's trousers and pants were pulled down to his knees and he was talking to her really low about how good she looked.

"Seb, please, no, don't-"

But she grabbed his penis and started stroking it, moving her hands up and down on it. A few minutes later, the boy, Seb, pushed the girl's head down and she began to kiss his penis. She was performing oral sex on him. She was still crying, but stopped as soon as she put his penis in her mouth. I started to feel ill at that point, so I turned back around and resumed my experiment. It was difficult to concentrate with all the moaning going on, so I covered my ears and just sat there, observing my soil until Mycroft came in with a bowl of crisps (which I don't eat, but it was a peace offering).

He very rudely asked his guests to leave, Seb and (I found out later the girl's name was Sally), and then asked me if I knew they were in my room. I told him that yes, I did, they asked if they could use it. He asked why I didn't stop them, and I told him that I didn't know what they were doing, which was a blatant lie. The truth was that I was curious. Mycroft look disgusted with me and left with the crisps. He probably ate the whole bowl himself.

I told John and Harry about this encounter, and they both got quiet. Harry said that she used to go out with Seb for a while. He's a senior now and plays some sort of defencive position on the football team. Sally and Seb are still together, but since what they did that night classifies as rape, she should break up with him. That'd be the most logical option.

John has his own car. It had one of those illogical sunroof things, but it was so very_ John_ in it's entirety that I could barely believe it. I sat in the middle while he drove and Harry sat to the left of me. John loves to listen to music. He kept telling Harry to find a station on the radio to listen to, but all that was coming up were endless adverts. In the end, Harry finally found this amazing song about this boy, and we all got very quiet. John tapped his hand on the steering wheel. Harry held her hand outside the car to make air waves. I just remained seated beetween them and didn't say anything until after the song was finished.

"I feel infinite."

John and Harry just looked at me as if I had just uttered the greatest thing they'd ever heard. The song was that good and we all paid attention to it. I listened to it in the point of view of the singer, and imagined singing about John. It made sense. What didn't make sense was how much my taste in music had changed since meeting John and Harry. I guess I'll have to conduct a study on that.

When we got to the party, Harry did knocked up the door in a secret pattern. The door opened a crack and a bloke with lots of fringe opened the door.

"Harriet known as Harry known as Nothing?"

"Philip."

The door opened and the old acquaintances embraced. Then, John and Philip hugged each other. John spoke.

"This is our friend, Sherlock."

Then, Philip hugged me. It was an extremely uncomfortable experience I hope will never happen again. As we hung our coats John told me that Philip was "baked like a fucking cake."

The party was in the basement of his house. The room was smoky and the kids were older than I am (though not in maturity).

Harry started smoking cigarettes. Everyone kept asking me questions, most definitely because they didn't want for me to feel out of place, especially after I had refused a beer. Soon, Philip started passing around food. This was perfect, because for a rare moment I felt hungry.

"Would you like a brownie?"

I nodded and took one. I ate it, and it tasted sort of off, but something about it made me want to keep eating it. I had never heard of this type of brownie, and you probably know by now what kind it was. After precisely twenty-seven minutes, the room started to slip away from me. I was talking to one of the girls with a belly button ring, and she seemed like something out of a film. I started blinking a lot, looking around. Everything was out of focus.

When John saw me, he turned to Philip. "What the hell is your problem?!"

"Come on, John, he likes it. Ask him."

"How do you feel, Sherlock?"

"...Light," I responded, tracing invisible dust particles in the air.

"Eh?" Philip said, no doubt nervous. The drug seemed to enhance my deductive skills, and I loved it. He was trembling slightly, barely noticeable. Experiencing paranoia and a twinge of regret. Possibly a history with inducing future drug-addicts. Pretended not to feel bad about it, but it was clear where his opinions lie.

John sat down next to me and held my hand. I was too busy observing things to get excited about his cool hand in mine.

"Are you seeing anything, Sherlock?" he asked calmly.

"Light," I said again.

"Does it feel good?"

"...Yeah."

"Are you thirsty?"

I nodded.

"What would you like to drink?"

It took me barely a half second to answer. "A milkshake." I don't know why this was funny, but everyone laughed. I laughed too.

"He's stoned!" I heard a girl across the room say. I recognised her as Irene, the lesbian from my English class.

John ignored them and leaned closer to me. I could smell his breath. It smelled like beer. "Are you hungry, Sherlock?"

I nodded.

"What would you like to eat?"

"A milkshake."

I highly doubt they could have laughed much harder than they did even if what I said was at all funny in any way. John took my hand again and stood me up on the dizzy floor. "C'mon," he said, flashing that warm smile that is so purely John, "we'll get you a milkshake."

As we were leaving he turned to Philip. "I still think you're an arsehole." And all Philip did was laugh.

John and I got back up to the kitchen, and he turned on the lights. It was bright. Too bright. I ducked my head. John just smiled again and turned off one of the lights. He got out the blender, ice cream, and some milk. I asked him where the toilet was while he made my milkshake. He told me it was upstairs, so I went upstairs in search of the toilet. When I opened the door, I saw Harriet kissing Clara. They looked completely lost in each other.

Harry informed me that what I saw was to be a secret. I knew that. She said that Clara didn't want people to know. I understood. Well, not really. Clara was the type of girl to wear skirts or dresses every day, hair up in a flower headband or a bloom tucked behind her ear. She wore pink a lot, and made a big effort to show off her breasts in whatever she wore.

John made the best milkshake I had ever had in my life.

When we got back down to the basement, Harry was downstairs, smiling more than I had ever seen her smile. Then, she pointed at me and said to Philip, "He's something, isn't he?"

"He's a wallflower." Philip nodded his head. Everyone in the room nodded their head along with him. It looked quite silly; like a circus of bobble-heads.

"You see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand." Harry said.

I didn't know people wasted time thinking things about me. I was sitting on the floor of a basement at my first real party (whatever a 'real party' is), and I remembered that John introduced me as his friend to Philip. I remembered that Harry had done the same for Clara.

I was even more surprised when Philip raised his drink and everyone did the same.

"To Sherlock."

And everyone else said, "Cheers," and clinked glasses. I don't know why they would do that. But it made me feel...special. Loved. Especially by John. Especially him.

John looked very handsome in his suit, but I tried not to think about him like that. It was proving to be quite difficult.

After the party, we left in John's car. Harry drove this time. John had taken off his suit jacket and was just wearing his shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. Seeing him looking like this made me want to think about having sex with him. John was crouching on the seat in the middle, and I was on the left. Harry started driving really fast, and just before we got to a tunnel, John stood up. When we hit the tunnel, the sound got scooped up as if in a vacuum, and it was replaced by a song on the tape player, a beautiful song called "Landslide." John started laughing. Not from humour, but from joy. Harry started laughing. Before I knew it, we were all laughing.

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.

-Sherlock

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**Please review, constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome! I hope to update tomorrow as I do not have school, but it will be harder to do once school starts up again. I hope everyone enjoyed the Sign of Three. To avoid spoilers, I will only say that it was my favourite episode of Sherlock.**


	5. 7 November 1991

_There's a disgustingly human part of me that tries to convince myself that he could possibly love me in return, but my logical left brain knows better._ **A/N:** Slight series 3 spoilers involving Mary. Warning for flippant talk about religion and holidays. Smoking.

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7 November 1991

Dear acquaintance,

The sky is overcast with clouds and there is a defninite chill in the air. It is fairly typical weather for where I live, but it isn't raining quite yet. Today was different because I find it beautiful, somehow. People don't expect me to be the type of person to find things like the weather beautiful. When I say 'people,' I'm being broad. Mycroft would tell you that I don't care about things like that. I don't, but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate it.

At lunch there I sit by John and Harry. Harry will smoke, and John will look disapproving at her, sort of shaking his head. John's concerned about her. Recently, another girl has started sitting with us more. One of the girls with the bellybutton rings from Philip's party. Her name is Molly. She's shy and quite annoying. She looks at me with interest and I can tell she is intrigued by me, but I haven't the faintest why. She probably thinks that I'm a bit strange, and because I don't talk a lot she wants to know more about me. I don't understand that. People are hideously boring. Aside from John.

Harry told me the story about her and Clara. I didn't really care to know, but from the way she held herself when she pulled me aside I could tell it was a sensitive topic, and it could very well be relevant and useful in the future, so I let her speak.

When Harry and Clara were in year 12, they were at a party. They got very drunk. Well, Harry said that Clara "pretended to be more pissed than she really was." They were alone down in the basement. Everyone else had gone upstairs to get more drinks. They chatted a bit before snogging. This, obviously, led to hands down pants and up shirts right there, in the home of another person. Completely illogical as they could have been caught, which apparently was not a concern at the time. Honestly, I doubt I'll ever understand how one's brain can be so addled by sex.

Again, aside from when I think about John.

On the following Monday at school, Clara had told everyone how pissed she had been at the party and how she didn't remember anything that had happened. She said that lie to everyone, including Harry. It was a pointless lie, as no one had actually seen them. She continued to tell this lie after every party, because at every party Harry and Clara had had sex. Of course, no one knew this. This went on for seven months.

Now, of course, Clara doesn't need to be high or drunk to have sex with Harry. She does it at parties that she would never admit going to, like the ones at Philip's house. I'm assuming it has something to do with the people invited. Clara is "cool," and we, evidently, are not. But that doesn't bother me. I've never been well-liked, except for now.

-Sherlock

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**8 November 1991**

Dear acquaintance,

Greg continues to give me more cases. Everything he gives me is quite simple, really, the answer blatantly obvious. I'm getting better, getting faster. I can solve one case in less than twenty minutes. Of course, Mycroft has never been afraid to tell me how much of an 'arrogant sod' I can be, and it would be so dreadfully tedious to call up Greg and tell him I'd solved the case.

However, I had no problem telling him how fast I'd solved each crime, and he looked no less than impressed though a bit dubious. Nonetheless he told me that because I am approaching the end of my 'secondary school career' (completely illogical, as this is not a paid job this cannot possibly be a career, this was poor wording—but now that I think of it, it may be a metaphor) I should start considering my post-uni plans.

I told him, truthfully, that I was considering piracy. Greg informed me that being a pirate did not ensure a safe, happy, or healthy life. Quite sad, actually. I was looking forward to it.

"You know, Sherlock," he started, "based on what you've shown me lately, you would make a fantastic detective. That's kind of what I was hoping you'd go for before you mentioned pirate."

"Don't be daft, Greg, of course I won't be a detective. There's nothing more tedious than answering to a boss or—or working with people." I replied honestly. The mere thought of working with idiots every day disgusted me.

Instead of agreeing or growing cross, Greg just laughed. "Sherlock, I doubt working with people could be a problem. You've got quite a lot of friends this year already."

I blinked. I suppose I hadn't thought of it that way until he said it. Friends. Imagine that. Sherlock Holmes, having friends. They weren't my friends, they couldn't be. They were just people that put up with me. I will admit that that thought made me feel uncomfortable.

It seems, actually, that I've gone and acquired more friends. John and Harry continue to introduce me to their friends, who tolerate me. Pretend to like me. That's alright. I don't need people to like me. My mum says friends are people who listen to you and don't judge you. I guess, though I've never talked to you properly, that would make you something of a friend to me.

Molly sits between Harry and John at lunch. She smokes continuously. I find this behaviour odd considering that she's a mortician's daughter. She's probably seen a lot of deaths caused by smoking-induced lung cancer. Well, that, and the fact that when she isn't smoking, she's talking about how horrible it is for your health. She talks a lot, actually.

On Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays John has rugby practice. Molly, Harry, and the lesbian from my English class (who I've now come to recognise as Irene) sit and watch him play. Normally I might find this sort of thing hopelessly boring, but try as I might, I can't seem to tear my eyes away from John in his tight shirt. I know I'd made a promise to him not to think of him in a sexual way, but I'm finding that increasingly difficult.

After rugby practice, Molly takes us to the morgue where her father works. She lets me examine the bodies and deduce how and why they were killed. John can always figure out the actual cause of death. I think he will become a doctor post-uni, if he 'uses his skills wisely,' as Greg might say. Based on his family's income and the number of children they've to support in one year, John won't be able to afford medical school. I've never felt like I wanted to help anyone before, but I want to help John. I don't know how. But I want to help him be happy. Whatever it takes.

To be completely honest, I've come to the conclusion that I love John. Not the romantic, achingly sweet kind of way that is often featured in films. I look at him sometimes, and all I can think is that he is the nicest man I've ever met. He's clever. Daft and an idiot like most people I've made acquaintance with, but a great deal cleverer.

I compose for him. I take out my violin and construct a new melody, thinking only of John. It sort of hurts. Almost physically. I don't quite understand it. I've never had intense emotions, and I never intended to. But I think about him and it hurts knowing that he's got a girlfriend.

A girlfriend. He's heterosexual. That much was evident when I first met him. There's a disgustingly human part of me that tries to convince myself that he could possibly love me in return, but my logical left brain knows better.

Mary's got blonde hair. Short, cropped. She's buxom, which is something that nearly every heterosexual male John's age appreciates in a woman. Size 12. Only child. Clever. Shortsighted. Liar. Romantic. Secret tattoo. There's no denying she's beautiful. The subtle kind of beautiful. She's got a homely, warm face. She doesn't listen to John when he talks to her.

She can't be a bad person. She's kind. I tolerate her. She knows, though. She sees the way I look at him. I don't want anyone to know. She won't tell.

I've found that there is a desire within me that makes utterly no sense. I want John to stop liking Mary.

I am really in love with John, and it hurts more than I can bear.

-Sherlock

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**15 November 1991**

Dear friend,

It's gotten colder. Bitter cold means that the Christmas holidays will soon be upon us, and I dread that. Mycroft explained to me when I was a small child how illogical Christmas is to celebrate, and I'm glad I realised how true that was at a young age. Every lie surrounding 'Father Christmas' and 'Santa Claus' is completely irrelevant to the religious background of the holiday, and the fact that so many parents of children continue to lead them on this path that will inevitably end with disappointment astounds me.

Christmas means that Mycroft will be back from university for holiday. He does come round on weekends, but I prefer to have him gone.

My mum said that I could invite John and Harry over for dinner. I didn't like this idea a lot, seeing as this would prove how embarrassing my mum can be. I wouldn't mind having John and Harry in my home, but I wouldn't want anyone else to be there. Honestly, I wouldn't even want Harry there much.

The last time I had a friend for dinner it was Victor. He slept over, though hardly any sleeping actually happened. He talked to me about the girls he liked. He didn't like girls. He was gay. I knew this and he didn't, and frankly, I found this a bit inconvenient. I chose him as a companion for a reason. I knew my own sexuality, and I needed someone who wouldn't judge.

"Sherlock, what about Sarah? She's rather pretty."

"Don't be stupid, Victor."

"I'm not stupid."

"Yes, you are."

"Sherlock, you're being rude again."

"Sorry."

"So anyway, Sarah. She's got…blonde hair. Sort of brown at the top. I think I like her."

"No, you don't."

"What? How would you know that?"

"You like Jim."

Victor was silent. He was very vivacious and brought a bit of adventure to my lonely ninth year. It should seem unlike him to be so quiet, but he had a way of being silent whenever he denied something. I was the only one who could bring this side out of him, of course. No one else was clever as I was to notice anything worth denying.

"…Of course I like him. He's my friend."

"Not like that, Vic. Don't be so daft. When you look at him, your pupils dilate. If he touches you, the skin of your face turns a bit red. Embarrassment and affection, most likely. You have a sexual or romantic attachment to Jim."

He did not talk for the rest of the night.

-Sherlock

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**Sorry this took so long to update, hopefully you found this chapter entertaining. Once I get more into the plot of the book the fic should be better. I have started this chapter three times prior to this, both times were lost due to shitty internet and an unknown computer malfunction. Hopefully the others won't take as long to write, but it's finals week.** **If any character seems even a bit OOC, please do not hesitate to tell me. And there is not a lot of interaction between Charlie and Sam in Perks, but I intend to add a bit more between John and Sherlock.** **Reviews are always appreciated (I'm slow at replying, I apologise) and keep me writing faster (that's only a little bit true). Hope you all enjoyed series 3 as much as I did!**


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